She might have been a true beauty, once.

That's not to say she's not beautiful now, exactly; the young woman's face has all the pleasing proportions, big eyes, full lips, and obvious intellect one could want from an impressive noble debutante.

But whatever has befallen her has robbed her eyes of some of the brightness of life, and any sense of charming innocence.  She is a monument to the ruin of what she might have been, now; even if that ruin is not unattractive in her own right.

She has neither arms, nor legs; both shoulders and hips terminate in a seamless rounding of skin, suggesting either birth defect or some scarless healing effort.  The legs of her pants and sleeves of her shirts are routinely sewn shut before being added to her wardrobe.

Once that significant oddity is comprehended, the rest of her is considerably less shocking, if atypically styled; dark blue hair is tied back in a ponytail, with fair features contrasted against black makeup, and jewellery.  She does not easily smile, but refuses to mope; and contently occupies the middleground of sardonic rallies and dry, even self deprecating whit.